F  46X 


FROM  THE  LIBRARY  OF 
REV.   LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON,  D.  D 

BEQUEATHED    BY   HIM   TO 

THE   LIBRARY  OF 

PRINCETON  THEOLOGICAL  SEMINARY 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

Princeton  Theological  Seminary  Library 


http://archive.org/detailS/voicesOOIong 


VOICES   OF  THE  NIGHT. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  eighteen  hundred  and 
forty-two,  by  H.  W.  Longfellow,  in  the  Clerk's  office  of  the  District 
Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


CAMBRIDGE: 

METCALF,   KEITH,   AND     NICHOLS, 

PRINTERS  TO  THE  UNIVERSITY. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Prelude          ........  vii 

VOICES  OF  THE  NIGHT. 

Hymn  to  the  Night 3 

A  Psalm  of  Life 5 

The  Reaper  and  the  Flowers         ....  8 

The  Light  of  Stars 11 

Footsteps  of  Angels 14 

Flowers 17 

The  Beleaguered  City 22 

Midnight  Mass  for  the  Dying  Year    .         .        .    .  26 

EARLIER  POEMS. 

An  April  Day ,  .        .33 

Autumn 36 

Woods  in  Winter 39 

Hymn  of  the  Moravian  Nuns  of  Bethlehem        .    .  42 

Sunrise  on  the  Hills 45 

The  Spirit  of  Poetry 48 

Burial  of  the  Minnisink 52 


VI  CONTENTS. 


TRANSLATIONS. 

Coplas  de  Manrique 59 

The  Good  Shepherd 89 

To-morrow 91 

The  Native  Land 93 

The  Image  of  God 95 

The  Brook 97 

The  Celestial  Pilot 99 

The  Terrestrial  Paradise 102 

Beatrice 105 

Spring 109 

The  Child  Asleep Ill 

The  Grave 113 

King  Christian 116 

The  Happiest  Land 119 

The  Wave 122 

The  Dead 123 

The  Bird  and  the  Ship 125 

Whither? 128 

Beware! 130 

Song  of  the  Bell         . 132 

The  Castle  by  the  Sea 134 

The  Black  Knight 137 

Song  of  the  Silent  Land 141 

L'Envoi 1£3 


PRELUDE. 


PRELUDE. 


Pleasant  it  was,  when  woods  were  green, 
And  winds  were  soft  and  low, 

To  lie  amid  some  sylvan  scene, 

Where,,  the  long  drooping  boughs  between, 

Shadows  dark  and  sunlight  sheen 
Alternate  come  and  go  ; 

Or  where  the  denser  grove  receives 

No  sunlight  from  above, 
But  the  dark  foliage  interweaves 
In  one  unbroken  roof  of  leaves, 
Underneath  whose  sloping  eaves 

The  shadows  hardly  move. 


PRELUDE. 

Beneath  some  patriarchal  tree 

I  lay  upon  the  ground  ; 
His  hoary  arms  uplifted  he, 
And  all  the  broad  leaves  over  me 
Clapped  their  little  hands  in  glee, 

With  one  continuous  sound  ;  — 

A  slumberous  sound,  —  a  sound  that  brings 

The  feelings  of  a  dream,  — 
As  of  innumerable  wings, 
As,  when  a  bell  no  longer  swings, 
Faint  the  hollow  murmur  rings 

O'er  meadow,  lake,  and  stream. 

And  dreams  of  that  which  cannot  die, 

Bright  visions,  came  to  me, 
As  lapped  in  thought  I  used  to  lie, 
And  gaze  into  the  summer  sky, 
Where  the  sailing  clouds  went  by, 

Like  ships  upon  the  sea  ; 


PRELUDE.  XI 

Dreams  that  the  soul  of  youth  engage 

Ere  Fancy  has  been  quelled  ; 
Old  legends  of  the  monkish  page. 
Traditions  of  the  saint  and  sage, 
Tales  that  have  the  rime  of  age, 

And  chronicles  of  Eld. 

And,  loving  still  these  quaint  old  themes, 

Even  in  the  city's  throng 
I  feel  the  freshness  of  the  streams, 
That,  crossed  by  shades  and  sunny  gleams, 
Water  the  green  land  of  dreams, 

The  holy  land  of  song. 

Therefore,  at  Pentecost,  which  brings 
The  Spring,  clothed  like  a  bride, 

When  nestling  buds  unfold  their  wings, 

And  bishop's-caps  have  golden  rings, 

Musing  upon  many  things, 
I  sought  the  woodlands  wide. 


XU  PRELUDE. 

The  green  trees  whispered  low  and  mild  ; 

It  was  a  sound  of  joy  ! 
They  were  my  playmates  when  a  child, 
And  rocked  me  in  their  arms  so  wild  ! 
Still  they  looked  at  me  and  smiled, 

As  if  I  were  a  boy  ; 

And  ever  whispered,  mild  and  low, 
"  Come,  be  a  child  once  more  !  " 

And  waved  their  long  arms  to  and  fro, 

And  beckoned  solemnly  and  slow  ; 

O,  I  could  not  choose  but  go 
Into  the  woodlands  hoar  ; 

Into  the  blithe  and  breathing  air, 

Into  the  solemn  wood, 
Solemn  and  silent  everywhere  ! 
Nature  with  folded  hands  seemed  there, 
Kneeling  at  her  evening  prayer  ! 

Like  one  in  prayer  I  stood. 


PRELUDE.  Xlll 

Before  me  rose  an  avenue 

Of  tall  and  sombrous  pines  ; 
Abroad  their  fan-like  branches  grew, 
And,  where  the  sunshine  darted  through, 
Spread  a  vapor  soft  and  blue, 

In  long  and  sloping  lines. 

And,  falling  on  my  weary  brain, 

Like  a  fast-falling  shower, 
The  dreams  of  youth  came  back  again  ; 
Low  lispings  of  the  summer  rain, 
Dropping  on  the  ripened  grain, 

As  once  upon  the  flower. 

Visions  of  childhood  !    Stay,  O  stay  ! 

Ye  were  so  sweet  and  wild  ! 
And  distant  voices  seemed  to  say, 
It  cannot  be  !     They  pass  away  ! 
Other  themes  demand  thy  lay  ; 

Thou  art  no  more  a  child  ! 


XIV  PRELUDE. 

"The  land  of  Song  within  thee  lies, 

Watered  by  living  springs  ; 

The  lids  of  Fancy's  sleepless  eyes 

Are  gates  unto  that  Paradise, 

Holy  thoughts,  like  stars,  arise, 

Its  clouds  are  angels'  wings. 

"Learn,  that  henceforth  thy  song  shall  be, 
Not  mountains  capped  with  snow, 
Nor  forests  sounding  like  the  sea, 
Nor  rivers  flowing  ceaselessly, 
Where  the  woodlands  bend  to  see 
The  bending  heavens  below. 

"  There  is  a  forest  where  the  din 

Of  iron  branches  sounds  ! 

A  mighty  river  roars  between, 

And  whosoever  looks  therein, 

Sees  the  heavens  all  black  with  sin,  — 

Sees  not  its  depths,  nor  bounds. 


PRELUDE.  XV 

"Athwart  the  swinging  branches  cast, 

Soft  rays  of  sunshine  pour  ; 
Then  comes  the  fearful  wintry  blast ; 
Our  hopes,  like  withered  leaves,  fall  fast  ; 
Pallid  lips  say,  '  It  is  past  ! 

We  can  return  no  more  ! ' 

"  Look,  then,  into  thine  heart,  and  write  ! 

Yes,  into  Life's  deep  stream  ! 
All  forms  of  sorrow  and  delight, 
All  solemn  Voices  of  the  Night, 
That  can  soothe  thee,  or  affright,  — 

Be  these  henceforth  thy  theme." 


VOICES  OF  THE  NIGHT 


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VOICES  OF  THE  NIGHT. 


I  heard  the  sounds  of  sorrow  and  delight, 

The  manifold,  soft  chimes, 
That  fill  the  haunted  chambers  of  the  Night, 

Like  some  old  poet's  rhymes. 

From  the  cool  cisterns  of  the  midnight  air 

My  spirit  drank  repose  ; 
The  fountain  of  perpetual  peace  flows  there,  — 

From  those  deep  cisterns  flows. 

O  holy  Night !  from  thee  I  learn  to  bear 

What  man  has  borne  before  ! 
Thou  layest  thy  finger  on  the  lips  of  Care, 

And  they  complain  no  more. 

Peace!  Peace!  Orestes-like  I  breathe  this  prayer! 

Descend  with  broad- winged  flight, 
The  welcome,  the  thrice  -prayed  for,  the  most  fair, 

The  best-beloved  Night ! 


A  PSALM  OF  LIFE. 

WHAT  THE  HEART  OF  THE  YOUNG  MAN  SAID  TO  THE  PSALMIST. 

Tell  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers, 
"Life  is  but  an  empty  dream  !  " 

For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers, 
And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 

Life  is  real  !     Life  is  earnest  ! 

And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal ; 
"Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  retumest," 

Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. 


VOICES  OF  THE  NIGHT. 

Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow, 

Is  our  destined  end  or  way  ; 
But  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow 

Find  us  farther  than  to-day. 

Art  is  long,  and  Time  is  fleeting, 

And  our  hearts,  though  stout  and  brave, 

Still,  like  muffled  drums,  are  beating 
Funeral  marches  to  the  grave. 

In  the  world's  broad  field  of  battle, 

In  the  bivouac  of  Life, 
Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle  ! 

Be  a  hero  in  the  strife  ! 

Trust  no  Future,  howe'er  pleasant  ! 

Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead  ! 
Act,  —  act  in  the  living  Present  ! 

Heart  within,  and  God  o'erhead  ! 


A  PSALM  OF   LIFE. 

Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 
We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 

And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 
Footsteps  on  the  sands  of  time  ; 

Footprints,  that  perhaps  another, 
Sailing  o'er  life's  solemn  main, 

A  forlorn  and  shipwrecked  brother, 
Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again. 

Let  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing, 
With  a  heart  for  any  fate  ; 

Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 
Learn  to  labor  and  to  wait. 


THE  REAPER  AND  THE  FLOWERS. 


There  is  a  Reaper,  whose  name  is  Death, 

And,  with  his  sickle  keen, 
He  reaps  the  bearded  grain  at  a  breath, 

And  the  flowers  that  grow  between. 

"  Shall  I  have  nought  that  is  fair  ? "  saith  he  ; 

"  Have  nought  but  the  bearded  grain  ? 
Though  the  breath  of  these  flowers  is  sweet  to  me. 

I  will  give  them  all  back  again." 


THE  REAPER  AXD  THE  FLOWERS.       9 

He  gazed  at  the  flowers  with  tearful  eyes, 
He  kissed  their  drooping  leaves  ; 

It  was  for  the  Lord  of  Paradise 
He  bound  them  in  his  sheaves. 

"  My  Lord  has  need  of  these  flowerets  gay," 

The  Reaper  said,  and  smiled  ; 
"  Dear  tokens  of  the  earth  are  they, 

Where  he  was  once  a  child. 

"  They  shall  all  bloom  in  fields  of  light, 

Transplanted  by  my  care, 
And  saints,  upon  their  garments  white, 

These  sacred  blossoms  wear." 

And  the  mother  gave,  in  tears  and  pain, 
The  flowers  she  most  did  love  ; 

She  knew  she  should  find  them  all  again 
In  the  fields  of  light  above. 


10  VOICES  OF  THE  NIGHT. 

O,  not  in  cruelty,  not  in  wrath, 
The  Reaper  came  that  day  ; 

'T  was  an  angel  visited  the  green  earth, 
And  took  the  flowers  away. 


11 


THE   LIGHT   OF   STARS. 


The  night  is  come,  but  not  too  soon ; 

And  sinking  silently, 
All  silently,  the  little  moon 

Drops  down  behind  the  sky. 

There  is  no  light  in  earth  or  heaven, 
But  the  cold  light  of  stars  ; 

And  the  first  watch  of  night  is  given 
To  the  red  planet  Mars. 


12  VOICES  OF  THE  NIGHT. 

Is  it  the  tender  star  of  love  ? 

The  star  of  love  and  dreams  ? 
O  no  !    from  that  blue  tent  above, 

A  hero's  armour  gleams. 

And  earnest  thoughts  within  me  rise, 

When  I  behold  afar, 
Suspended  in  the  evening  skies, 

The  shield  of  that  red  star. 

0  star  of  strength  !    I  see  thee  stand 
And  smile  upon  my  pain ; 

Thou  beckonest  with  thy  mailed  hand, 
And  I  am  strong  again. 

Within  my  breast  there  is  no  light, 
But  the  cold  light  of  stars ; 

1  give  the  first  watch  of  the  night 
To  the  red  planet  Mars. 


THE  LIGHT  OF  STARS.  13 

The  star  of  the  unconquered  will, 

He  rises  in  my  breast. 
Serene,  and  resolute,  and  still, 

And  calm,  and  self-possessed. 

And  thou,  too,  whosoe'er  thou  art, 
That  readest  this  brief  psalm, 

As  one  by  one  thy  hopes  depart, 
Be  resolute  and  calm. 

O  fear  not  in  a  world  like  this, 
And  thou  shalt  know  ere  long, 

Know  how  sublime  a  thing  it  is 
To  suffer  and  be  strong. 


14 


FOOTSTEPS   OF  ANGELS. 


When  the  hours  of  Day  are  numbered, 
And  the  voices  of  the  Night 

Wake  the  better  soul,  that  slumbered, 
To  a  holy,  calm  delight ; 

Ere  the  evening  lamps  are  lighted, 
And,  like  phantoms  grim  and  tall, 

Shadows  from  the  fitful  fire-light 
Dance  upon  the  parlour  wall  ; 


FOOTSTEPS   OF  ANGELS.  15 

Then  the  forms  of  the  departed 

Enter  at  the  open  door  ; 
The  beloved,  the  true-hearted, 

Come  to  visit  me  once  more  ; 

He,  the  young  and  strong,  who  cherished 

Noble  longings  for  the  strife, 
By  the  road-side  fell  and  perished, 

Weary  with  the  march  of  life  ! 

They,  the  holy  ones  and  weakly, 
Who  the  cross  of  suffering  bore, 

Folded  their  pale  hands  so  meekly, 
Spake  with  us  on  earth  no  more  ! 

And  with  them  the  Being  Beauteous, 
Who  unto  my  youth  was  given, 

More  than  all  things  else  to  love  me, 
And  is  now  a  saint  in  heaven. 


16  VOICES   OF   THE  NIGHT. 

With  a  slow  and  noiseless  footstep 
Comes  that  messenger  divine, 

Takes  the  vacant  chair  beside  me, 
Lays  her  gentle  hand  in  mine. 

And  she  sits  and  gazes  at  me 
With  those  deep  and  tender  eyes, 

Like  the  stars,  so  still  and  saint-like, 
Looking  downward  from  the  skies. 

Uttered  not,  yet  comprehended, 
Is  the  spirit's  voiceless  prayer, 

Soft  rebukes,  in  blessings  ended, 
Breathing  from  her  lips  of  air. 

O,  though  oft  depressed  and  lonely, 
All  my  fears  are  laid  aside, 

If  I  but  remember  only 

Such  as  these  have  lived  and  died  ! 


17 


FLOWERS. 


Spake  full  well,  in  language  quaint  and  olden, 
One  who  dwelleth  by  the  castled  Rhine, 

When  he  called  the  flowers,  so  blue  and  golden, 
Stars,  that  in  earth's  firmament  do  shine. 

Stars  they  are,  wherein  we  read  our  history, 

As  astrologers  and  seers  of  eld  ; 
Yet  not  wrapped  about  with  awful  mystery, 

Like  the  burning  stars,  which  they  beheld. 


18  VOICES  OF  THE  NIGHT. 

Wondrous  truths,  and  manifold  as  wondrous, 
God  hath  written  in  those  stars  above  ; 

But  not  less  in  the  bright  flowerets  under  us 
Stands  the  revelation  of  his  love. 

Bright  and  glorious  is  that  revelation, 

Written  all  over  this  great  world  of  ours  ; 

Making  evident  our  own  creation, 

In  these  stars  of  earth, —  these  golden  flowers. 

And  the  Poet,  faithful  and  far-seeing, 
Sees,  alike  in  stars  and  flowers,  a  part 

Of  the  self-same,  universal  being, 

Which  is  throbbing  in  his  brain  and  heart. 

Gorgeous  flowerets  in  the  sunlight  shining, 
Blossoms  flaunting  in  the  eye  of  day, 

Tremulous  leaves,  with  soft  and  silver  lining, 
Buds  that  open  only  to  decay  ; 


FLOWERS.  19 

Brilliant  hopes,  all  woven  in  gorgeous  tissues, 
Flaunting  gayly  in  the  golden  light  ; 

Large  desires,  with  most  uncertain  issues, 
Tender  wishes,  blossoming  at  night  ! 

These  in  flowers  and  men  are  more  than  seeming  ; 

Workings  are  they  of  the  self-same  powers, 
Which  the  Poet,  in  no  idle  dreaming, 

Seeth  in  himself  and  in  the  flowers. 

Everywhere  about  us  are  they  glowing, 
Some  like  stars,  to  tell  us  Spring  is  born  ; 

Others,  their  blue  eyes  with  tears  o'erflowing, 
Stand  like  Ruth  amid  the  golden  corn  ; 

Not  alone  in  Spring's  armorial  bearing, 
And  in  Summer's  green-emblazoned  field, 

But  in  arms  of  brave  old  Autumn's  wearing, 
In  the  centre  of  his  brazen  shield  ; 


20  VOICES  OF  THE  NIGHT. 

Not  alone  in  meadows  and  green  alleys, 
On  the  mountain-top,  and  by  the  brink 

Of  sequestered  pools  in  woodland  valleys, 
Where  the  slaves  of  Nature  stoop  to  drink  ; 

Not  alone  in  her  vast  dome  of  glory, 
Not  on  graves  of  bird  and  beast  alone, 

But  in  old  cathedrals,  high  and  hoary, 
On  the  tombs  of  heroes,  carved  in  stone  ; 

In  the  cottage  of  the  rudest  peasant, 

In  ancestral  homes,  whose  crumbling  towers, 

Speaking  of  the  Past  unto  the  Present, 
Tell  us  of  the  ancient  Games  of  Flowers  ; 

In  all  places,  then,  and  in  all  seasons, 

Flowers  expand  their  light  and  soul-like  wings, 

Teaching  us,  by  most  persuasive  reasons, 
How  akin  they  are  to  human  things. 


FLOWERS.  21 

And  with  childlike,  credulous  affection 
We  behold  their  tender  buds  expand  ; 

Emblems  of  our  own  great  resurrection, 
Emblems  of  the  bright  and  better  land. 


22 


THE   BELEAGUERED  CITY. 


I  have  read,  in  some  old  marvellous  tale, 
Some  legend  strange  and  vague, 

That  a  midnight  host  of  spectres  pale 
Beleaguered  the  walls  of  Prague. 

Beside  the  Moldau's  rushing  stream, 
With  the  wan  moon  overhead, 

There  stood,  as  in  an  awful  dream, 
The  army  of  the  dead. 


THE  BELEAGUERED  CITY.  23 

White  as  a  sea-fog,  landward  bound, 

The  spectral  camp  was  seen, 
And,  with  a  sorrowful,  deep  sound, 

The  river  flowed  between. 

No  other  voice  nor  sound  was  there, 

No  drum,  nor  sentry's  pace  ; 
The  mist-like  banners  clasped  the  air, 

As  clouds  with  clouds  embrace. 

But,  when  the  old  cathedral  bell 
Proclaimed  the  morning  prayer, 

The  white  pavilions  rose  and  fell 
On  the  alarmed  air. 

Down  the  broad  valley  fast  and  far 

The  troubled  army  fled  ; 
Up  rose  the  glorious  morning  star, 

The  ghastly  host  was  dead. 


24  VOICES   OF   THE  NIGHT. 

I  have  read,  in  the  marvellous  heart  of  man, 
That  strange  and  mystic  scroll, 

That  an  army  of  phantoms  vast  and  wan 
Beleaguer  the  human  soul. 

Encamped  beside  Life's  rushing  stream, 

In  Fancy's  misty  light, 
Gigantic  shapes  and  shadows  gleam 

Portentous  through  the  night. 

Upon  its  midnight  battle-ground 

The  spectral  camp  is  seen, 
And,  with  a  sorrowful,  deep  sound, 

Flows  the  River  of  Life  between. 

No  other  voice,  nor  sound  is  there, 

In  the  army  of  the  grave  ; 
No  other  challenge  breaks  the  air, 

But  the  rushing  of  Life's  wave. 


THE   BELEAGUERED  CITY.  25 

And,  when  the  solemn  and  deep  church-bell 

Entreats  the  soul  to  pray, 
The  midnight  phantoms  feel  the  spell, 

The  shadows  sweep  away. 

Down  the  broad  Vale  of  Tears  afar 

The  spectral  camp  is  fled  ; 
Faith  shineth  as  a  morning  star, 

Our  ghastly  fears  are  dead. 


26 


MIDNIGHT  MASS  FOR  THE  DYING  YEAR. 


Yes,  the  Year  is  growing  old, 
And  his  eye  is  pale  and  bleared  ! 

Death,  with  frosty  hand  and  cold, 
Plucks  the  old  man  by  the  beard, 
Sorely,  —  sorely ! 

The  leaves  are  falling,  falling, 

Solemnly  and  slow  ; 
"Caw  !  caw  !  "  the  rooks  are  calling, 

It  is  a  sound  of  woe, 
A  sound  of  woe  ! 


MIDNIGHT  MASS   FOR  THE  DYlx\TG  YEAR.      27 

Through  woods  and  mountain  passes 
The  winds,  like  anthems,  roll ; 

They  are  chanting  solemn  masses, 
Singing  ;  "  Pray  for  this  poor  soul, 
Pray,  —  pray  !  " 

And  the  hooded  clouds,  like  friars, 
Tell  their  beads  in  drops  of  rain, 

And  patter  their  doleful  prayers  ;  — 
But  their  prayers  are  all  in  vain, 
All  in  vain  ! 

There  he  stands  in  the  foul  weather, 

The  foolish,  fond  Old  Year, 
Crowned  with  wild  flowers  and  with  heather, 

Like  weak,  despised  Lear, 
A  king,  —  a  king  ! 


28  VOICES  OF  THE  NIGHT. 

Then  comes  the  summer-like  day, 
Bids  the  old  man  rejoice  ! 

His  joy  !  his  last !  O,  the  old  man  gray, 
Loveth  that  ever-soft  voice, 
Gentle  and  low. 

To  the  crimson  woods  he  saith,  — - 
To  the  voice  gentle  and  low 

Of  the  soft  air,  like  a  daughter's  breath, - 
"  Pray  do  not  mock  me  so  ! 
Do  not  laugh  at  me  !  " 

And  now  the  sweet  day  is  dead  ; 

Cold  in  his  arms  it  lies  ; 
No  stain  from  its  breath  is  spread 

Over  the  glassy  skies, 
No  mist  or  stain  ! 


MIDNIGHT  MASS  FOR  THE  DYING  YEAR.      29 

Then,  too,  the  Old  Year  dieth, 
And  the  forests  utter  a  moan, 

Like  the  voice  of  one  who  crieth 
In  the  wilderness  alone, 
"  Vex  not  his  ghost !  " 

Then  comes,  with  an  awful  roar, 

Gathering  and  sounding  on, 
The  storm-wind  from  Labrador, 

TJie  wind  Euroclydon, 
The  storm-wind  ! 

Howl  !  howl !  and  from  the  forest 
Sweep  the  red  leaves  away  ! 

Would,  the  sins  that  thou  abhorrest, 
O  Soul  !  could  thus  decay, 
And  be  swept  away  ! 


30  VOICES  OF  THE  NIGHT. 

For  there  shall  come  a  mightier  blast, 

There  shall  be  a  darker  day  ; 
And  the  stars,  from  heaven  down-cast, 
Like  red  leaves  be  swept  away  ! 
Kyrie,  eleyson  ! 
Christe,  eleyson  ! 


EARLIER   POEMS 


[These  poems  were  written  for  the  most  part  during  my 
college  life,  and  all  of  them  before  the  age  of  nineteen. 
Some  have  found  their  way  into  schools,  and  seem  to  be 
successful.  Others  lead  a  vagabond  and  precarious  exist- 
ence in  the  corners  of  newspapers  ;  or  have  changed  their 
names  and  run  away  to  seek  their  fortunes  beyond  the 
sea.  I  say,  with  the  Bishop  of  Avranches,  on  a  similar 
occasion ;  "  I  cannot  be  displeased  to  see  these  children 
of  mine,  which  I  have  neglected,  and  almost  exposed, 
brought  from  their  wanderings  in  lanes  and  alleys,  and 
safely  lodged,  in  order  to  go  forth  into  the  world  together 
in  a  more  decorous  garb."] 


33 


AN  APRIL  DAY. 


"When  the  warm  sun,  that  brings 
Seed-time  and  harvest,  has  returned  again, 
'T  is  sweet  to  visit  the  still  wood,  where  springs 

The  first  flower  of  the  plain. 

I  love  the  season  well, 
When  forest  glades  are  teeming  with  bright  forms, 
Nor  dark  and  many-folded  clouds  foretell 

The  coming-on  of  storms. 

3  G 


34  EARLIER  POEMS. 

From  the  earth's  loosened  mould 
The  sapling  draws  its  sustenance,  and  thrives  ; 
Though  stricken  to  the  heart  with  winter's  cold, 

The  drooping  tree  revives. 

The  softly- warbled  song 
Comes  from  the  pleasant  woods,  and  colored  wings 
Glance  quick  in  the  bright  sun,  that  moves  along 

The  forest  openings. 

When  the  bright  sunset  fills 
The  silver  woods  with  light,  the  green  slope  throws 
Its  shadows  in  the  hollows  of  the  hills, 

And  wide  the  upland  glows. 

And,  when  the  eve  is  born, 
In  the  blue  lake  the  sky,  o'er-reaching  far, 
Is  hollowed  out,  and  the  moon  dips  her  horn, 

And  twinkles  many  a  star. 


AN  APRIL  DAY.  35 

Inverted  in  the  tide, 
Stand  the  gray  rocks,  and  trembling  shadows  throw, 
And  the  fair  trees  look  over,  side  by  side, 

And  see  themselves  below. 

Sweet  April !  —  many  a  thought 
Is  wedded  unto  thee,  as  hearts  are  wed  ; 
Nor  shall  they  fail,  till,  to  its  autumn  brought, 

Life's  golden  fruit  is  shed. 


AUTUMN. 


With  what  a  glory  comes  and  goes  the  year  ! 
The  buds  of  spring,  those  beautiful  harbingers 
Of  sunny  skies  and  cloudless  times,  enjoy 
Life's  newness,  and  earth's  garniture  spread  out  ; 
And  when  the  silver  habit  of  the  clouds 
Comes  down  upon  the  autumn  sun,  and  with 
A  sober  gladness  the  old  year  takes  up 
His  bright  inheritance  of  golden  fruits, 
A  pomp  and  pageant  fill  the  splendid  scene. 


AUTUMN.  37 

There  is  a  beautiful  spirit  breathing  now 
Its  mellow  richness  on  the  clustered  trees, 
And,  from  a  beaker  full  of  richest  dyes, 
Pouring  new  glory  on  the  autumn  woods, 
And  dipping  in  warm  light  the  pillared  clouds. 
Morn  on  the  mountain,  like  a  summer  bird, 
Lifts  up  her  purple  wing,  and  in  the  vales 
The  gentle  wind,  a  sweet  and  passionate  wooer, 
Kisses  the  blushing  leaf,  and  stirs  up  life 
Within  the  solemn  woods  of  ash  deep-crimsoned, 
And  silver  beech,  and  maple  yellow-leaved, 
Where  autumn,  like  a  faint  old  man,  sits  down 
By  the  wayside  a-weary.      Through  the  trees 
The  golden  robin  moves.      The  purple  finch, 
That  on  wild  cherry  and  red  cedar  feeds, 
A  winter  bird,  comes  with  its  plaintive  whistle, 
And  pecks  by  the  witch-hazel,  whilst  aloud 
From  cottage  roofs  the  warbling  blue-bird  sings, 
And  merrily,  with  oft-repeated  stroke, 
Sounds  from  the  threshing-floor  the  busy  flail. 


38  EARLIER  POEMS. 

O  what  a  glory  doth  this  world  put  on 
For  him  who,  with  a  fervent  heart,  goes  forth 
Under  the  bright  and  glorious  sky,  and  looks 
On  duties  well  performed,  and  days  well  spent ! 
For  him  the  wind,  ay,  and  the  yellow  leaves 
Shall  have  a  voice,  and  give  him  eloquent  teachings. 
He  shall  so  hear  the  solemn  hymn,  that  Deadi 
Has  lifted  up  for  all,  that  he  shall  go 
To  his  long  resting-place  without  a  tear. 


WOODS   IN  WINTER. 


"When  winter  winds  are  piercing  chill, 
And  through  the  hawthorn  blows  the  gale, 

With  solemn  feet  I  tread  the  hill, 
That  overbrows  the  lonely  vale. 

O'er  the  bare  upland,  and  away 

Through  the  long  reach  of  desert  woods, 

The  embracing  sunbeams  chastely  play, 
And  gladden  these  deep  solitudes. 


40  EARLIER  POEMS. 

Where,  twisted  round  the  barren  oak, 
The  summer  vine  in  beauty  clung, 

And  summer  winds  the  stillness  broke, 
The  crystal  icicle  is  hung. 

Where,  from  their  frozen  urns,  mute  springs 
Pour  out  the  river's  gradual  tide, 

Shrilly  the  skater's  iron  rings, 
And  voices  fill  the  woodland  side. 

Alas  !  how  changed  from  the  fair  scene, 
When  birds  sang  out  their  mellow  lay, 

And  winds  were  soft,  and  woods  were  green, 
And  the  song  ceased  not  with  the  day. 

But  still  wild  music  is  abroad, 

Pale,  desert  woods  !  within  your  crowd  ; 

And  gathering  winds,  in  hoarse  accord, 
Amid  the  vocal  reeds  pipe  loud. 


WOODS  IN  WINTER.  41 

Chill  airs   and  wintry  winds  !  my  ear 
Has  grown  familiar  with  your  song  ; 

I  hear  it  in  the  opening  year,  — 
I  listen,  and  it  cheers  me  long. 


42 


HYMN 
OF  THE  MORAVIAN  NUNS  OF  BETHLEHEM, 

AT  THE  CONSECRATION  OF  PULASKl's  BANNER. 

When  the  dying  flame  of  day 
Through  the  chancel  shot  its  ray, 
Far  the  glimmering  tapers  shed 
Faint  light  on  the  cowled  head  ; 
And  the  censer  burning  swung, 
Where,  before  the  altar,  hung 
The  blood-red  banner,  that  with  prayer 
Had  been  consecrated  there. 


HYMN  OF  THE  MORAVIAN  NUNS.      43 

And  the  nun's  sweet  hymn  was  heard  the  while, 
Sung  low  in  the  dim,  mysterious  aisle. 

"  Take  thy  banner  !     May  it  wave 
Proudly  o'er  the  good  and  brave  ; 
When  the  battle's  distant  wail 
Breaks  the  sabbath  of  our  vale, 
When  the  clarion's  music  thrills 
To  the  hearts  of  these  lone  hills, 
When  the  spear  in  conflict  shakes, 
And  the  strong  lance  shivering  breaks. 

"  Take  thy  banner  !  and,  beneath 
The  battle-cloud's  encircling  wreath, 
Guard  it !  —  till  our  homes  are  free  ! 
Guard  it !  —  God  will  prosper  thee  ! 
In  the  dark  and  trying  hour, 
In  the  breaking  forth  of  power, 
In  the  rush  of  steeds  and  men, 
His  right  hand  will  shield  thee  then. 


44  EARLIER  POEMS. 

"  Take  thy  banner  !     But,  when  night 
Closes  round  the  ghastly  fight, 
If  the  vanquished  warrior  bow, 
Spare  him  !  —  By  our  holy  vow, 
By  our  prayers  and  many  tears, 
By  the  mercy  that  endears, 
Spare  him  !  — he  our  love  hath  shared  ! 
Spare  him  !  —  as  thou  wouldst  be  spared  ! 

"  Take  thy  banner  !  —  and  if  e'er 
Thou  shouldst  press  the  soldier's  bier, 
And  the  muffled  drum  should  beat 
To  the  tread  of  mournful  feet, 
Then  this  crimson  flag  shall  be 
Martial  cloak  and  shroud  for  thee." 

The  warrior  took  that  banner  proud, 
And  it  was  his  martial  cloak  and  shroud  ! 


45 


SUNRISE   ON  THE   HILLS. 


I  stood  upon  the  hills,  when  heaven's  wide  arch 

Was  glorious  with  the  sun's  returning  march, 

And  woods  were  brightened,  and  soft  gales 

Went  forth  to  kiss  the  sun-clad  vales. 

The  clouds  were  far  beneath  me;  —  bathed  in  light, 

They  gathered  mid-way  round  the  wooded  height, 

And,  in  their  fading-glory,  shone 

Like  hosts  in  battle  overthrown, 

As  many  a  pinnacle,  with  shifting  glance, 

Through  the  gray  mist  thrust  up  its  shattered  lance, 


46  EARLIER  POEMS. 

And  rocking  on  the  cliff  was  left 
The  dark  pine  blasted,  bare,  and  cleft. 
The  veil  of  cloud  was  lifted,  and  below 
Glowed  the  rich  valley,  and  the  river's  flow 
Was  darkened  by  the  forest's  shade, 
Or  glistened  in  the  white  cascade  ; 
Where  upward,  in  the  mellow  blush  of  day, 
The  noisy  bittern  wheeled  his  spiral  way. 

I  heard  the  distant  waters  dash, 
I  saw  the  current  whirl  and  flash,  — 
And  richly,  by  the  blue  lake's  silver  beach, 
The  woods  were  bending  with  a  silent  reach. 
Then  o'er  the  vale,  with  gentle  swell, 
The  music  of  the  village  bell 
Came  sweetly  to  the  echo-giving  hills  ; 
And  the  wild  horn,  whose  voice  the  woodland  fills. 
Was  ringing  to  the  merry  shout, 
That  faint  and  far  the  glen  sent  out, 


SUNRISE  ON  THE  HILLS.  47 

Where,  answering  to  the  sudden  shot,  thin  smoke, 
Through  thick-leaved  branches,  from  the  dingle 
broke. 

-If  thou  art  worn  and  hard  beset 
With  sorrows,  that  thou  wouldst  forget, 
If  thou  wouldst  read  a  lesson,  that  will  keep 
Thy  heart  from  fainting  and  thy  soul  from  sleep, 
Go  to  the  woods  and  hills  !  —  No  tears 
Dim  the  sweet  look  that  Nature  wears. 


48 


THE   SPIRIT  OF   POETRY. 


There  is  a  quiet  spirit  in  these  woods, 
That  dwells  where'er  the  gentle  south  wind  blows ; 
Where,  underneath  the  white-thorn,  in  the  glade, 
The  wild  flowers  bloom,  or,  kissing  the  soft  air, 
The  leaves  above  their  sunny  palms  outspread. 
With  what  a  tender  and  impassioned  voice 
It  fills  the  nice  and  delicate  ear  of  thought, 
When  the  fast-ushering  star  of  morning  comes 
O'er-riding  the  gray  hills  with  golden  scarf ; 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  POETRY.  49 

Or  when  the  cowled  and  dusky-sandaled  Eve, 
In  mourning  weeds,  from  out  the  western  gate, 
Departs  with  silent  pace  !     That  spirit  moves 
In  the  green  valley,  where  the  silver  brook, 
From  its  full  laver,  pours  the  white  cascade  ; 
And,  babbling  low  amid  the  tangled  woods, 
Slips  down  through  moss-grown  stones  with  end- 
less laughter. 
And  frequent,  on  the  everlasting  hills, 
Its  feet  go  forth,  when  it  doth  wrap  itself 
In  all  the  dark  embroidery  of  the  storm, 
And  shouts  the  stern,  strong  wind.  And  here,  amid 
The  silent  majesty  of  these  deep  woods, 
Its  presence  shall  uplift  thy  thoughts  from  earth, 
As  to  the  sunshine    and  the  pure,  bright  air 
Their  tops  the  green  trees  lift.  Hence  gifted  bards 
Have  ever  loved  the  calm  and  quiet  shades. 
For  them  there  was  an  eloquent  voice  in  all 
The  sylvan  pomp  of  woods,  the  golden  sun, 
4  i 


50  EARLIER  POEMS. 

The  flowers,  the  leaves,  the  river  on  its  way, 
Blue  skies,  and  silver  clouds,  and  gentle  winds,  — 
The  swelling  upland,  where  the  sidelong  sun 
Aslant  the  wooded  slope,  at  evening,  goes,  — 
Groves,  through  whose  broken  roof  the  sky  looks  in, 
Mountain,  and  shattered  cliff,  and  sunny  vale, 
The  distant  lake,  fountains,  —  and  mighty  trees, 
In  many  a  lazy  syllable,  repeating 
Their  old  poetic  legends  to  the  wind. 

And  this  is  the  sweet  spirit,  that  doth  fill 
The  world ;  and,  in  these  wayward  days  of  youth, 
My  busy  fancy  oft  embodies  it, 
As  a  bright  image  of  the  light  and  beauty 
That  dwell  in  nature,  —  of  the  heavenly  forms 
We  worship  in  our  dreams,  and  the  soft  hues 
That  stain  the  wild  bird's  wing,  and  flush  the  clouds 
When  the  sun  sets.     Within  her  eye 
The  heaven  of  April,  with  its  changing  light, 


THE   SPIRIT  OF  POETRY.  51 

And  when  it  wears  the  blue  of  May,  is  hung, 
And  on  her  lip  the  rich,  red  rose.     Her  hair 
Is  like  the  summer  tresses  of  the  trees, 
When  twilight  makes  them  brown,  and  on  her 

cheek 
Blushes  the  richness  of  an  autumn  sky, 
"With  ever-shifting  beauty.     Then  her  breath, 
It  is  so  like  the  gentle  air  of  Spring, 
As,  from  the  morning's  dewy  flowers,  it  comes 
Full  of  their  fragrance,  that  it  is  a  joy 
To  have  it  round  us,  —  and  her  silver  voice 
Is  the  rich  music  of  a  summer  bird, 
Heard  in  the  still  night,  with  its  passionate  ca- 
dence. 


52 


BURIAL  OF  THE   MINNISINK. 


On  sunny  slope  and  beechen  swell, 
The  shadowed  light  of  evening  fell  ; 
And,  where  the  maple's  leaf  was  brown, 
With  soft  and  silent  lapse  came  down 
The  glory,  that  the  wood  receives, 
At  sunset,  in  its  brazen  leaves. 

Far  upward  in  the  mellow  light 
Rose  the  blue  hills.     One  cloud  of  white, 


BURIAL  OF  THE  MINN1SINK.  53 

Around  a  far  uplifted  cone, 

In  the  warm  blush  of  evening  shone  ; 

An  image  of  the  silver  lakes, 

By  winch  the  Indian's  soul  awakes. 

But  soon  a  funeral  hymn  was  heard 
Where  the  soft  breath  of  evening  stirred 
The  tall,  gray  forest  ;  and  a  band 
Of  stern  in  heart,  and  strong  in  hand, 
Came  winding  down  beside  the  wave, 
To  lay  the  red  chief  in  his  grave. 

They  sang,  that  by  his  native  bowers 
He  stood,  in  the  last  moon  of  flowers, 
And  thirty  snows  had  not  yet  shed 
Their  glory  on  the  warrior's  head  ; 
But,  as  the  summer  fruit  decays, 
So  died  he  in  those  naked  days. 


54  EARLIER  POEMS. 

A  dark  cloak  of  the  roebuck's  skin 
Covered  the  warrior,  and  within 
Its  heavy  folds  the  weapons,  made 
For  the  hard  toils  of  war,  were  laid  ; 
The  cuirass,  woven  of  plaited  reeds, 
And  the  broad  belt  of  shells  and  beads. 

Before,  a  dark-haired  virgin  train 
Chanted  the  death  dirge  of  the  slain  ; 
Behind,  the  long  procession  came 
Of  hoary  men  and  chiefs  of  fame, 
With  heavy  hearts,  and  eyes  of  grief, 
Leading  the  war-horse  of  their  chief. 

.  Stripped  of  his  proud  and  martial  dress, 
Uncurbed,  unreined,  and  riderless, 
With  darting  eye,  and  nostril  spread, 
And  heavy  and  impatient  tread, 
He  came  ;  and  oft  that  eye  so  proud 
Asked  for  his  rider  in  the  crowd. 


BURIAL  OF  THE  MINNISINK.  55 

They  buried  the  dark  chief ;  they  freed 
Beside  the  grave  his  battle  steed  ; 
And  swift  an  arrow  cleaved  its  way 
To  his  stern  heart  !     One  piercing  neigh 
Arose,  —  and,  on  the  dead  man's  plain, 
The  rider  grasps  his  steed  again. 


TRANSLATIONS 


[Don  Jorge  Manrique,  the  author  of  the  following  poem, 
flourished  in  the  last  half  of  the  fifteenth  century.  He 
followed  the  profession  of  arms,  and  died  on  the  field  of 
battle.  Mariana,  in  his  History  of  Spain,  makes  hon- 
orable mention  of  him,  as  being  present  at  the  siege  of 
Ucles ;  and  speaks  of  him  as  "  a  youth  of  estimable  quali- 
ties, who  in  this  war  gave  brilliant  proofs  of  his  valor. 
He  died  young ;  and  was  thus  cut  off  from  long  exercising 
his  great  virtues,  and  exhibiting  to  the  world  the  light 
of  his  genius,  which  was  already  known  to  fame."  He 
was  mortally  wounded  in  a  skirmish  near  Canavete,  in 
in  the  year  1479. 

The  name  of  Rodrigo  Manrique,  the  father  of  the  poet, 
Conde  de  Paredes  and  Maestre  de  Santiago,  is  well  known 
in  Spanish  history  and  song.  He  died  in  1476 ;  according 
to  Mariana,  in  the  town  of  Ucles;  but,  according  to  the 
poem  of  his  son,  in  Ocana.  It  was  his  death  that  called 
forth  the  poem  upon  which  rests  the  literary  reputation 
of  the  younger  Manrique.  In  the  language  of  his  histo- 
rian, "  Don  Jorge  Manrique,  in  an  elegant  Ode,  full  of 
poetic  beauties,  rich  embellishments  of  genius,  and  high 
moral  reflections,  mourned  the  death  of  his  father  as  with 
a  funeral  hymn."  This  praise  is  not  exaggerated.  The 
poem  is  a  model  in  its  kind.  Its  conception  is  solemn 
and  beautiful ;  and,  in  accordance  with  it,  the  style  moves 
on  —  calm,  dignified,  and  majestic] 


59 


COPLAS  DE   MANRIQUE. 

FROM    THE    SPANISH. 

O  let  the  soul  her  slumbers  break, 
Let  thought  be  quickened,  and  awake  ; 
Awake  to  see 

How  soon  this  life  is  past  and  gone, 
And  death  comes  softly  stealing  on, 
How  silently  ! 

Swiftly  our  pleasures  glide  away, 
Our  hearts  recall  the  distant  day 
With  many  sighs  ; 
The  moments  that  are  speeding  fast 
We  heed  not,  but  the  past,  —  the  past, — 
More  highly  prize. 


60  TRANSLATIONS. 

Onward  its  course  the  present  keeps, 
Onward  the  constant  current  sweeps, 
Till  life  is  done  ; 
And,  did  we  judge  of  time  aright, 
The  past  and  future  in  their  flight 
Would  be  as  one. 

Let  no  one  fondly  dream  again, 
That  Hope  and  all  her  shadowy  train 
Will  not  decay  ; 

Fleeting  as  were  the  dreams  of  old, 
Remembered  like  a  tale  that  's  told, 
They  pass  away. 

Our  lives  are  rivers,  gliding  free 
To  that  unfathomed,  boundless  sea, 
The  silent  grave ! 

Thither  all  earthly  pomp  and  boast 
Roll,  to  be  swallowed  up  and  lost 
In  one  dark  wave. 


COPLAS  DE  MANRIQUE.  61 

Thither  the  mighty  torrents  stray, 
Thither  the  brook  pursues  its  way, 
And  tinkling  rill. 

There  all  are  equal.     Side  by  side 
The  poor  man  and  the  son  of  pride 
Lie  calm  and  still. 

I  will  not  here  invoke  the  throng 

Of  orators  and  sons  of  song, 

The  deathless  few  ; 

Fiction  entices  and  deceives, 

And,  sprinkled  o'er  her  fragrant  leaves, 

Lies  poisonous  dew. 

To  One  alone  my  thoughts  arise, 

The  Eternal  Truth,— the  Good  and  Wise,— 

To  Him  I  cry, 

Who  shared  on  earth  our  common  lot, 

But  the  world  comprehended  not 

His  deity. 


64  TRANSLATIONS. 

Tell  me,  —  the  charms  that  lovers  seek 
In  the  clear  eye  and  blushing  cheek, 
The  hues  that  play 
O'er  rosy  lip  and  brow  of  snow, 
When  hoary  age  approaches  slow, 
Ah,  where  are  they  ? 

The  cunning  skill,  the  curious  arts, 
The  glorious  strength  that  youth  imparts 
In  life's  first  stage  ; 
These  shall  become  a  heavy  weight, 
When  Time  swings  wide  his  outward  gate 
To  weary  age. 

The  noble  blood  of  Gothic  name, 
Heroes  emblazoned  high  to  fame, 
In  long  array  ; 

How,  in  the  onward  course  of  time, 
The  landmarks  of  that  race  sublime 
Were  swept  away  ! 


COPLAS  DE  MANRIQUE.  65 

Some,  the  degraded  slaves  of  lust, 
Prostrate  and  trampled  in  the  dust, 
Shall  rise  no  more  ; 
Others,  by  guilt  and  crime,  maintain 
The  scutcheon,  that,  without  a  stain, 
Their  fathers  bore. 

Wealth  and  the  high  estate  of  pride, 
With  what  untimely  speed  they  glide, 
How  soon  depart  ! 
Bid  not  the  shadowy  phantoms  stay, 
The  vassals  of  a  mistress  they, 
Of  fickle  heart. 

These  gifts  in  Fortune's  hands  are  found ; 
Her  swift  revolving  wheel  turns  round, 
And  they  are  gone  ! 
No  rest  the  inconstant  goddess  knows, 
But  changing,  and  without  repose, 
Still  hurries  on. 


66  TRANSLATIONS. 

Even  could  the  hand  of  avarice  save 
Its  gilded  baubles,  till  the  grave 
Reclaimed  its  prey, 
Let  none  on  such  poor  hopes  rely  ; 
Life,  like  an  empty  dream,  flits  by, 
And  where  are  they  ? 

Earthly  desires  and  sensual  lust 

Are  passions  springing  from  the  dust,  — 

They  fade  and  die  ; 

But,  in  the  life  beyond  the  tomb, 

They  seal  the  immortal  spirit's  doom 

Eternally  ! 

The  pleasures  and  delights,  which  mask 
In  treacherous  smiles  life's  serious  task, 
What  are  they,  all, 
But  the  fleet  coursers  of  the  chase, 
And  death  an  ambush  in  the  race, 
Wherein  we  fall  ? 


COPLAS  DE  MANRIQUE.  67 

No  foe,  no  dangerous  pass,  we  heed, 
Brook  no  delay,  —  but  onward  speed 
With  loosened  rein  ; 
And,  when  the  fatal  snare  is  near, 
We  strive  to  check  our  mad  career, 
But  strive  in  vain. 
r 

Could  we  new  charms  to  age  impart, 
And  fashion  with  a  cunning  art 
The  human  face, 

As  we  can  clothe  the  soul  with  light, 
And  make  the  glorious  spirit  bright 
With  heavenly  grace,  — 

How  busily  each  passing  hour 
Should  we  exert  that  magic  power  ! 
What  ardor  show, 
To  deck  the  sensual  slave  of  sin, 
Yet  leave  the  freeborn  soul  within, 
In  weeds  of  woe  ! 


68  TRANSLATIONS. 

Monarchs,  the  powerful  and  the  strong, 

Famous  in  history  and  in  song 

Of  olden  time, 

Saw,  by  the  stern  decrees  of  fate, 

Their  kingdoms  lost,  and  desolate 

Their  race  sublime. 

Who  is  the  champion  ?  who  the  strong  ? 

Pontiff  and  priest,  and  sceptred  throng  ? 

On  these  shall  fall 

As  heavily  the  hand  of  Death, 

As  when  it  stays  the  shepherd's  breath 

Beside  his  stall. 

I  speak  not  of  the  Trojan  name, 

Neither  its  glory  nor  its  shame 

Has  met  our  eyes  ; 

Nor  of  Rome's  great  and  glorious  dead, 

Though  we  have  heard  so  oft,  and  read, 

Their  histories. 


COPLAS  DE  MANRIQUE.  69 

Little  avails  it  now  to  know 
Of  ages  passed  so  long  ago. 
Nor  how  they  rolled  ; 
Our  theme  shall  be  of  yesterday, 
Which  to  oblivion  sweeps  away, 
Like  days  of  old. 

Where  is  the  King,  Don  Juan  ?     Where 

Each  royal  prince  and  noble  heir 

Of  Aragon  ? 

Where  are  the  courtly  gallantries  ? 

The  deeds  of  love  and  high  emprise, 

In  battle  done  ? 

Tourney  and  joust,  that  charmed  the  eye, 
And  scarf,  and  gorgeous  panoply, 
And  nodding  plume,  — 
What  were  they  but  a  pageant  scene  ? 
What  but  the  garlands,  gay  and  green, 
That  deck  the  tomb  ? 


7Q  TRANSLATIONS. 

Where  are  the  high-born  dames,  and  where 
Their  gay  attire,  and  jewelled  hair, 
And  odors  sweet  ? 

Where  are  the  gentle  knights,  that  came 
To  kneel,  and  breathe  love's  ardent  flame, 
Low  at  their  feet  ? 

Where  is  the  song  of  Troubadour  ? 

Where  are  the  lute  and  gay  tambour 

They  loved  of  yore  ? 

Where  is  the  mazy  dance  of  old, 

The  flowing  robes,  inwrought  with  gold, 

The  dancers  wore  ? 

And  he  who  next  the  sceptre  swayed, 
Henry,  whose  royal  court  displayed 
Such  power  and  pride  ; 
O,  in  what  winning  smiles  arrayed, 
The  world  its  various  pleasures  laid 
His  throne  beside  ! 


COPLAS  DE  MAXR1QUE.  71 

But  O  !  how  false  and  full  of  guile 
That  world; which  wore  so  soft  a  smile 
But  to  betray  ! 

She,  that  had  been  bis  friend  before, 
Now  from  the  fated  monarch  tore 
Her  charms  awa)r. 

The  countless  gifts,  —  the  stately  walls, 

The  royal  palaces,  and  halls 

All  filled  with  gold  ; 

Plate  with  armorial  bearings  wrought, 

Chambers  with  ample  treasures  fraught 

Of  wealth  untold  ; 

The  noble  steeds,  and  harness  bright, 
And  gallant  lord,  and  stalwart  knight, 
In  rich  array,  — 

Where  shall  we  seek  them  now  ?    Alas  ! 
Like  the  bright  dewdrops  on  the  grass, 
They  passed  away. 


72  TRANSLATIONS. 

His  brother,  too,  whose  factious  zeal 
Usurped  the  sceptre  of  Castile, 
Unskilled  to  reign ; 
What  a  gay,  brilliant  court  had  he, 
When  all  the  flower  of  chivalry 
Was  in  his  train  ! 

But  he  was  mortal  ;  and  the  breath, 
That  flamed  from  the  hot  forge  of  Death, 
Blasted  his  years  ; 

Judgment  of  God  !  that  flame  by  thee, 
When  raging  fierce  and  fearfully, 
Was  quenched  in  tears  ! 

Spain's  haughty  Constable,  — the  great 
And  gallant  Master,  —  cruel  fate 
Stripped  him  of  all. 
Breathe  not  a  whisper  of  his  pride,  — 
He  on  the  gloomy  scaffold  died, 
Ignoble  fall  ! 


COPLAS  DE  MANRIQUE.  73 

The  countless  treasures  of  his  care, 
Hamlets  and  villas  green  and  fair, 
His  mighty  power,  — 
What  were  they  all  but  grief  and  shame, 
Tears  and  a  broken  heart,  when  came 
The  parting  hour  ? 

His  other  brothers,  proud  and  high, 
Masters,  who,  in  prosperity, 
Might  rival  kings  ; 
Who  made  the  bravest  and  the  best 
The  bondsmen  of  their  high  behest, 
Their  underlings  ; 

What  was  their  prosperous  estate, 
When  high  exalted  and  elate 
With  power  and  pride  ? 
What,  but  a  transient  gleam  of  light, 
A  flame,  which,  glaring  at  its  height, 
Grew  dim  and  died  ? 


74  TRANSLATIONS. 

So  many  a  duke  of  royal  name, 
Marquis  and  count  of  spotless  fame, 
And  baron  brave, 

That  might  the  sword  of  empire  wield, 
All  these,  O  Death,  hast  thou  concealed 
In  the  dark  grave  ! 

Their  deeds  of  mercy  and  of  arms, 
In  peaceful  days,  or  war's  alarms, 
When  thou  dost  show, 
O  Death,  thy  stern  and  angry  face, 
One  stroke  of  thy  all-powerful  mace 
Can  overthrow. 

Unnumbered  hosts,  that  threaten  nigh, 
Pennon  and  standard  flaunting  high, 
And  flag  displayed  ; 
High  battlements  intrenched  around, 
Bastion,  and  moated  wall,  and  mound, 
And  palisade, 


COPLAS  DE  MANRIQUE.  75 

And  covered  trench,  secure  and  deep,  — 

All  these  cannot  one  victim  keep, 

O  Death,  from  thee, 

When  thou  dost  battle  in  thy  wrath, 

And  thy  strong  shafts  pursue  their  path 

Unerringly. 

O  World  !  so  few  the  years  we  live, 

Would  that  the  life  which  thou  dost  give 

Were  life  indeed  ! 

Alas  !  thy  sorrows  fall  so  fast, 

Our  happiest  hour  is  when  at  last 

The  soul  is  freed. 

Our  days  are  covered  o'er  with  grief, 

And  sorrows  neither  few  nor  brief 

Veil  all  in  gloom  ; 

Left  desolate  of  real  good, 

Within  this  cheerless  solitude 

No  pleasures  bloom. 


76  TRANSLATIONS. 

Thy  pilgrimage  begins  in  tears, 
And  ends  in  bitter  doubts  and  fears, 
Or  dark  despair  ; 
Midway  so  many  toils  appear, 
That  he  who  lingers  longest  here 
Knows  most  of  care. 

Thy  goods  are  bought  with  many  a  groan, 

By  the  hot  sweat  of  toil  alone, 

And  weary  hearts  ; 

Fleet-footed  is  the  approach  of  woe, 

But  with  a  lingering  step  and  slow 

Its  form  departs. 

And  he,  the  good  man's  shield  and  shade, 
To  whom  all  hearts  their  homage  paid, 
As  Virtue's  son,  — 
Roderic  Manrique,  —  he  whose  name 
Is  written  on  the  scroll  of  Fame, 
Spain's  champion  ; 


COPLAS  DE  MANRIQUE.  77 

His  signal  deeds   and  prowess  high 

Demand  no  pompous  eulogy, — 

Ye  saw  his  deeds  ! 

Why  should  their  praise  in  verse  be  sung  ? 

The  name,  that  dwells  on  every  tongue, 

No  minstrel  needs. 

To  friends  a  friend  ;  —  how  kind  to  all 
The  vassals  of  this  ancient  hall 
And  feudal  fief! 
To  foes  how  stern  a  foe  was  he  ! 
And  to  the  valiant  and  the  free 
How  brave  a  chief ! 

What  prudence  with  the  old  and  wise  ; 

What  grace  in  youthful  gayeties  ; 

In  all  how  sage  ! 

Benignant  to  the  serf  and  slave, 

He  showed  the  base  and  falsely  brave 

A  lion's  rage. 


78  TRANSLATIONS. 

His  was  Octavian's  prosperous  star, 

The  rush  of  Caesar's  conquering  car 

At  battle's  call ; 

His,  Scipio's  virtue  ;  his,  the  skill 

And  the  indomitable  will 

Of  Hannibal. 

His  was  a  Trajan's  goodness,  —  his 

A  Titus'  noble  charities 

And  righteous  laws  ; 

The  arm  of  Hector,  and  the  might 

Of  Tully,  to  maintain  the  right 

In  truth's  just  cause  ; 

The  clemency  of  Antonine, 
Aurelius'  countenance  divine, 
Firm,  gentle,  still ; 
The  eloquence  of  Adrian, 
And  Theodosius'  love  to  man, 
And  generous  will ; 


COPLAS  DE  MANRiaUE.  79 

In  tented  field  and  bloody  fray, 
An  Alexander's  vigorous  sway 
And  stern  command ; 
The  faith  of  Constantine ;  ay,  more, 
The  fervent  love  Camillus  bore 
His  native  land. 

He  left  no  well-filled  treasury, 

He  heaped  no  pile  of  riches  high, 

Nor  massive  plate  ; 

He  fought  the  Moors,  —  and,  in  their  fall, 

Villa  and  tower  and  castled  wall 

Were  his  estate. 

Upon  the  hard-fought  battle-ground, 
Brave  steeds  and  gallant  riders  found 
A  common  grave  ; 

And  there  the  warrior's  hand  did  gain 
The  rents,  and  the  long  vassal  train, 
The  conquered  gave. 


80  TRANSLATIONS. 

And  if,  of  old,  his  halls  displayed 
The  honored  and  exalted  grade 
His  worth  had  gained, 
So,  in  the  dark,  disastrous  hour, 
Brothers  and  bondsmen  of  his  power 
His  hand  sustained. 

After  high  deeds,  not  left  untold, 
In  the  stern  warfare,  which  of  old 
'T  was  his  to  share, 
Such  noble  leagues  he  made,  that  more 
And  fairer  regions, than  before, 
His  guerdon  were. 

These  are  the  records,  half  effaced, 

Which,  with  the  hand  of  youth,  he  traced 

On  history's  page  ; 

But  with  fresh  victories  he  drew 

Each  fading  character  anew 

In  his  old  age. 


COPLAS  DE  MANRIQUE. 

By  his  unrivalled  skill,  by  great 
And  veteran  service  to  the  state, 
By  worth  adored, 
He  stood,  in  his  high  dignity, 
The  proudest  knight  of  chivalry, 
Knight  of  the  Sword. 

He  found  his  villas  and  domains 
Beneath  a  tyrant's  galling  chains 
And  cruel  power ; 
But,  by  fierce  battle  and  blockade, 
Soon  his  own  banner  was  displayed 
From  every  tower. 

By  the  tried  valor  of  his  hand, 

His  monarch  and  his  native  land 

Were  nobly  served  ;  — 

Let  Portugal  repeat  the  story, 

And  proud  Castile,  who  shared  the  glory 

His  arms  deserved. 


82  TRANSLATIONS. 

And  when  so  oft,  for  weal  or  woe, 

His  life  upon  the  fatal  throw 

Had  been  cast  down  ; 

When  he  had  served,  with  patriot  zeal, 

Beneath  the  banner  of  Castile, 

His  sovereign's  crown ; 

And  done  such  deeds  of  valor  strong, 
That  neither  history  nor  song 
Can  count  them  all ; 
Then,  on  Ocana's  castled  rock, 
Death  at  his  portal  came  to  knock, 
With  sudden  call,  — 

Saying,  "Good  Cavalier,  prepare 
To  leave  this  world  of  toil  and  care 
With  joyful  mien  ; 
Let  thy  strong  heart  of  steel  this  day 
Put  on  its  armour  for  the  fray,  — 
The  closing  scene. 


COPLAS  DE  MANRiaUE.  83 

'-  Since  thou  hast  been,  in  battle-strife, 
So  prodigal  of  health  and  life, 
For  earthly  fame, 
Let  virtue  nerve  thy  heart  again  ; 
Loud  on  the  last  stern  battle-plain 
They  call  thy  name. 

"  Think  not  the  struggle  that  draws  near 
Too  terrible  for  man,  —  nor  fear 
To  meet  the  foe  ; 
Nor  let  thy  noble  spirit  grieve, 
Its  life  of  glorious  fame  to  leave 
On  earth  below. 

u  A  life  of  honor  and  of  worth 
Has  no  eternity  on  earth, — 
'T  is  but  a  name  ; 
And  yet  its  glory  far  exceeds 
That  base  and  sensual  life,  which  leads 
To  want  and  shame. 


84  TRANSLATIONS. 

"  The  eternal  life,  beyond  the  sky, 
Wealth  cannot  purchase,  nor  the  high 
And  proud  estate  ; 

The  soul  in  dalliance  laid,  —  the  spirit 
Corrupt  with  sin,  —  shall  not  inherit 
A  joy  so  great. 

cc  But  the  good  monk,  in  cloistered  cell, 
Shall  gain  it  by  his  book  and  bell, 
His  prayers  and  tears  ; 
And  the  brave  knight,  whose  arm  endures 
Fierce  battle,  and  against  the  Moors 
His  standard  rears. 

c  c  And  thou,  brave  knight,  whose  hand  has  poured 
The  life-blood  of  the  Pagan  horde 
O'er  all  the  land, 

In  heaven  shalt  thou  receive,  at  length, 
The  guerdon  of  thine  earthly  strength 
And  dauntless  hand. 


COPLAS  DE  MANRIQUE.  85 

''Cheered  onward  by  this  promise  sure. 
Strong  in  the  faith  entire  and  pure 
Thou  dost  profess, 
Depart,  —  thy  hope  is  certainty,  — 
The  third  —  the  better  life  on  high 
Shalt  thou  possess." 

"  O  Death,  no  more,  no  more  delay  ; 
My  spirit  longs  to  flee  away, 
And  be  at  rest ; 

The  will  of  Heaven  my  will  shall  be,  — 
I  bow  to  the  divine  decree, 
To  God's  behest. 

"  My  soul  is  ready  to  depart, 
No  thought  rebels,  the  obedient  heart 
Breathes  forth  no  sigh  ; 
The  wish  on  earth  to  linger  still 
Were  vain,  when  't  is  God's  sovereign  will 
That  we  shall  die. 


86  TRANSLATIONS. 

cc  O  thou,  that  for  our  sins  didst  take 
A  human  form,  and  humbly  make 
Thy  home  on  earth  ; 
Thou,  that  to  thy  divinity 
A  human  nature  didst  ally 
By  mortal  birth, 

"  And  in  that  form  didst  suffer  here 
Torment,  and  agony,  and  fear, 
So  patiently ; 

By  thy  redeeming  grace  alone, 
And  not  for  merits  of  my  own, 
O,  pardon  me  !  " 

As  thus  the  dying  warrior  prayed, 
Without  one  gathering  mist  or  shade 
Upon  his  mind  ; 
Encircled  by  his  family, 
Watched  by  affection's  gentle  eye 
So  soft  and  kind  ; 


COPLAS  DE  MANRIQUE.  87 

His  soul  to  Him,  who  gave  it,  rose  ; 

God  lead  it  to  its  long  repose, 

Its  glorious  rest ! 

And,  though  the  warrior's  sun  has  set, 

Its  light  shall  linger  round  us  yet, 

Bright,  radiant,  blest.* 


*  This  poem  of  Manrique  is  a  great  favorite  in  Spain. 
No  less  than  four  poetic  Glosses,  or  running  commentaries, 
upon  it  have  been  published,  no  one  of  which,  however, 
possesses  great  poetic  merit.  That  of  the  Carthusian  monk, 
Rodrigo  de  Valdepenas,  is  the  best.  It  is  known  as  the 
Glosa  del  Cartujo.  There  is  also  a  prose  Commentary  by 
Luis  de  Aranda. 

The  following  stanzas  of  the  poem  were  found  in  the 
author's  pocket,  after  his  death  on  the  field  of  battle. 

"  O  World  !  so  few  the  years  we  live, 
Would  that  the  life  which  thou  dost  give 
Were  life  indeed  ! 
Alas  !  thy  sorrows  fall  so  fast, 
Our  happiest  hour  is  when  at  last 
The  soul  is  freed. 


88  TRANSLATIONS. 


"  Our  days  are  covered  o'er  with  grief, 
And  sorrows  neither  few  nor  brief 
Veil  all  in  gloom  ; 
Left  desolate  of  real  good, 
Within  this  cheerless  solitude 
No  pleasures  bloom. 

"  Thy  pilgrimage  begins  in  tears, 
And  ends  in  bitter  doubts  and  fears, 
Or  dark  despair ; 
Midway  so  many  toils  appear, 
That  he  who  lingers  longest  here 
Knows  most  of  care. 

"  Thy  goods  are  bought  with  many  a  groan, 
By  the  hot  sweat  of  toil  alone, 
And  weary  hearts ; 
Fleet-footed  is  the  approach  of  woe, 
But  with  a  lingering  step  and  slow 
Its  form  departs." 


89 


THE  GOOD  SHEPHERD. 

FROM    THE    SPANISH   OF    LOPE   DE    VEGA. 

Shepherd!  that  with  thine  amorous,  sylvan  song 
Hast  broken  the  slumber  which  encompassed  me, — 
That  mad'st  thy  crook  from  the  accursed  tree, 
On  which  thy  powerful  arms  were  stretched  so  long! 
Lead  me  to  mercy's  ever-flowing  fountains  ; 
For  thou  my  shepherd,  guard,  and  guide  shalt  be; 
I  will  obey  thy  voice,  and  wait  to  see 
Thy  feet  all  beautiful  upon  the  mountains. 


90  TRANSLATIONS. 

Hear,  Shepherd ! — thou  who  for  thy  flock  art  dying, 
O,  wash  away  these  scarlet  sins,  for  thou 
Rejoicest  at  the  contrite  sinner's  vow. 
O,  wait !  —  to  thee  my  weary  soul  is  crying,  — 
Wait  for  me  !  —  Yet  why  ask  it,  when  I  see, 
With  feet  nailed  to  the  cross,  thou  'rt  waiting  still 
for  me ! 


91 


TO-MORROW. 

FROM    THE   SPANISH    OF   LOPE   DE    VEGA. 

Lord,  what  am  I,  that,  with  unceasing  care, 
Thou  didst  seek  after  me,  —  that  thou  didst  wait, 
Wet  with  unhealthy  dews,  before  my  gate, 
And  pass  the  gloomy  nights  of  winter  there  ? 
O  strange  delusion  !  —  that  I  did  not  greet 
Thy  blest  approach,  and  O,  to  Heaven  how  lost, 
If  my  ingratitude's  unkindly  frost 
Has  chilled  the  bleeding  wounds  upon  thy  feet. 


92 


TRANSLATIONS. 


How  oft  my  guardian  angel  gently  cried, 

"  Soul,  from  thy  casement  look,  and  thou  shalt  see 

How  he  persists  to  knock  and  wait  for  thee  ! " 

And,  O  !  how  often  to  that  voice  of  sorrow, 

"  To-morrow  we  will  open,"  I  replied, 

And  when  the  morrow  came  I  answered  still, "  To- 


morrow, 


93 


THE   NATIVE   LAND. 

FROM   THE   SPANISH   OF    FRANCISCO   DE   ALDANA. 

Clear  fount  of  light  !  my  native  land  on  high, 
Bright  with  a  glory  that  shall  never  fade  ! 
Mansion  of  truth  !  without  a  veil  or  shade, 
Thy  holy  quiet  meets  the  spirit's  eye. 
There  dwells  the  soul  in  its  ethereal  essence, 
Gasping  no  longer  for  life's  feeble  breath  ; 
But,  sentineled  in  heaven,  its  glorious  presence 
With  pitying  eye  beholds,  yet  fears  not,  death. 


92  TRANSLATIONS. 

How  oft  my  guardian  angel  gently  cried, 

"  Soul,  from  thy  casement  look,  and  thou  shalt  see 

How  he  persists  to  knock  and  wait  for  thee  ! " 

And,  O  !  how  often  to  that  voice  of  sorrow, 

"  To-morrow  we  will  open,"  I  replied, 

And  when  the  morrow  came  I  answered  still, "  To- 


93 


THE   NATIVE   LAND. 

FROM    THE    SPANISH    OF    FRANCISCO    DE   ALDANA. 

Clear  fount  of  light  !  my  native  land  on  high, 
Bright  with  a  glory  that  shall  never  fade  ! 
Mansion  of  truth  !  without  a  veil  or  shade, 
Thy  holy  quiet  meets  the  spirit's  eye. 
There  dwells  the  soul  in  its  ethereal  essence, 
Gasping  no  longer  for  life's  feeble  breath  ; 
But,  sentineled  in  heaven,  its  glorious  presence 
With  pitying  eye  beholds,  yet  fears  not,  death. 


94  TRANSLATIONS. 

Beloved  country  !  banished  from  thy  shore, 
A  stranger  in  this  prison-house  of  clay, 
The  exiled  spirit  weeps  and  sighs  for  thee  ! 
Heavenward  the  bright  perfections  I  adore 
Direct,  and  the  sure  promise  cheers  the  way, 
That,  whither  love  aspires,  there  shall  my  dwelling 
be. 


95 


THE   IMAGE   OF  GOD. 

FROM    THE    SPANISH    OF   FRANCISCO   DE   ALDANA. 

O  Lord  !  that  seest,  from  yon  starry  height, 
Centred  in  one  the  future  and  the  past, 
Fashioned  in  thine  own  image,  see  how  fast 
The  world  obscures  in  me  what  once  was  bright ! 
Eternal  Sun  !  the  warmth  which  thou  hast  given, 
To  cheer  life's  flowery  April,  fast  decays  ; 
Yet,  in  the  hoary  winter  of  my  days, 
For  ever  green  shall  be  my  trust  in  Heaven. 


96  TRANSLATIONS. 

Celestial  King  !    O  let  thy  presence  pass 

Before  my  spirit,  and  an  image  fair 

Shall  meet  that  look  of  mercy  from  on  high, 

As  the  reflected  image  in  a  glass 

Doth  meet  the  look  of  him   who  seeks  it  there. 

And  owes  its  being  to  the  gazer's  eye. 


97 


THE  BROOK. 


FROM    THE    SPANISH. 


Laugh  of  the  mountain  !  —  lyre  of  bird  and  tree  ! 
Pomp  of  the  meadow  !  mirror  of  the  morn  ! 
The  soul  of  April,  unto  whom  are  born 
The  rose  and  jessamine,  leaps  wild  in  thee  ! 
Although,  where'er  thy  devious  current  strays, 
The  lap  of  earth  with  gold  and  silver  teems, 
To  me  thy  clear  proceeding  brighter  seems 
Than  golden  sands,  that  charm  each  shepherd's 
gaze. 


98  TRANSLATIONS. 

How  without  guile  thy  bosom,  all  transparent 
As  the  pure  crystal,  lets  the  curious  eye 
Thy  secrets  scan,  thy  smooth,  round  pebbles  count! 
How,  without  malice  murmuring,  glides  thy  current ! 
O  sweet  simplicity  of  days  gone  by  ! 
Thou  shun'st  the  haunts  of  man,  to  dwell  in  lim- 
pid fount  f 


99 


THE   CELESTIAL  PILOT. 

FROM    DANTE.     PURGATORIO,  II. 

And  now,  behold !  as  at  the  approach  of  morning, 
Through  the  gross  vapors,  Mars  grows  fiery  red 
Down  in  the  west  upon  the  ocean  floor, 

Appeared  to  me, —  may  I  again  behold  it  !  — 
A  light  along  the  sea,  so  swiftly  coming, 
Its  motion  by  no  flight  of  wing  is  equalled. 

And  when  therefrom  I  had  withdrawn  a  little 
Mine  eyes,  that  I  might  question  my  conductor, 
Again  I  saw  it  brighter  grown  and  larger. 


100  TRANSLATIONS. 

Thereafter,  on  all  sides  of  it,  appeared 

I  knew  not  what  of  white,  and  underneath, 

Little  by  little,  there  came  forth  another. 

My  master  yet  had  uttered  not  a  word, 
While  the  first  brightness  into  wings  unfolded  ; 
But,  when  he  clearly  recognised  the  pilot, 

He  cried  aloud ;  "  Quick,  quick,  and  bow  the  knee ! 
Behold  the  Angel  of  God  !  fold  up  thy  hands  ! 
Henceforward  shalt  thou  see  such  officers  ! 

cc  See,  how  he  scorns  all  human  arguments, 

So  that  no  oar  he  wants,  nor  other  sail 

Than  his  own  wings, between  so  distant  shores  ! 

"  See,  how  he  holds  them,  pointed  straight  to 

heaven, 
Fanning  the  air  with  the  eternal  pinions, 
That  do  not  moult  themselves  like  mortal  hair  ! " 


THE  CELESTIAL  PILOT.  101 

And  then,  as  nearer  and  more  near  us  came 
The  Bird  of  Heaven,  more  glorious  he  appeared, 
So  that  the  eye  could  not  sustain  his  presence, 

But  down  I  cast  it ;  and  he  came  to  shore 
With  a  small  vessel,  gliding  swift  and  light, 
So  that  the  water  swallowed  nought  thereof. 

Upon  the  stern  stood  the  Celestial  Pilot ! 
Beatitude  seemed  written  in  his  face  ! 
And  more  than  a  hundred  spirits  sat  within. 

"In  exitu  Israel  out  of  Egypt!  " 
Thus  sang  they  all  together  in  one  voice, 
With  whatso  in  that  Psalm  is  after  written. 

Then  made  he  sign  of  holy  rood  upon  them, 
Whereat  all  cast  themselves  upon  the  shore, 
And  he  departed  swiftly  as  he  came. 


102 


THE   TERRESTRIAL  PARADISE. 

FROM    DANTE.      PURGATORIO,    XXVIII. 

Longing  already  to  search  in  and  round 
The  heavenly  forest,  dense  and  living-green, 
Which  to  the  eyes  tempered  the  new-born  day, 

Withouten  more  delay  I  left  the  bank, 
Crossing  the  level  country  slowly,  slowly, 
Over  the  soil,  that  everywhere  breathed  fragrance. 

A  gently-breathing  air,  that  no  mutation 
Had  in  itself,  smote  me  upon  the  forehead, 
No  heavier  blow,  than  of  a  pleasant  breeze, 


THE  TERRESTRIAL  PARADISE.  103 

Whereat  the  tremulous  branches  readily 

Did  all  of  them  bow  downward  towards  that  side 

Where  its  first  shadow  casts  the  Holy  Mountain ; 

Yet  not  from  their  upright  direction  bent 
So  that  the  little  birds  upon  their  tops 
Should  cease  the  practice  of  their  tuneful  art ; 

But,  with  full-throated  joy,  the  hours  of  prime 
Singing  received  they  in  the  midst  of  foliage 
That  made  monotonous  burden  to  their  rhymes, 

Even  as  from  branch  to  branch  it  gathering  swells, 
Through  the  pine  forests  on  the  shore  of  Chiassi, 
When  jEoIus  unlooses  the  Sirocco. 

Already  my  slow  steps  had  led  me  on 

Into  the  ancient  wood  so  far,  that  I 

Could  see  no  more  the  place  where  I  had  entered. 


104  TRANSLATIONS. 

And  lo  !  my  farther  course  cut  off  a  river, 
Which,  towards  the  left  hand,  with  its  little  waves, 
Bent  down  the  grass,  that  on  its  margin  sprang. 

All  waters  that  on  earth  most  limpid  are, 
Would  seem  to  have  within  themselves  some  mix- 
ture, 
Compared  with  that,  which  nothing  doth  conceal, 

Although  it  moves  on  with  a  brown,  brown  current, 
Under  the  shade  perpetual,  that  never 
Ray  of  the  sun  lets  in,  nor  of  the  moon. 


105 


BEATRICE. 

FROM  DANTE.      PURGATORIO,  XXX. ;  XXXI. 

Even  as  the  Blessed,  in  the  new  covenant, 
Shall  rise  up  quickened,  each  one  from  his  grave, 
Wearing  again  the  garments  of  the  flesh, 

So,  upon  that  celestial  chariot, 

A  hundred  rose  ad  vocem  tanti  senis, 

Ministers  and  messengers  of  life  eternal. 

They  all  were  saying  ;  "  Benedictus  qui  vcnis" 
And  scattering  flowers  above  and  round  about, 
"  Manibus  o  date  lilia  plenis." 


106  TRANSLATIONS. 

I  once  beheld,  at  the  approach  of  day, 
The  orient  sky  all  stained  with  roseate  hues, 
And  the  other  heaven  with  light  serene  adorned, 

And  the  sun's  face  uprising,  overshadowed, 
So  that,  by  temperate  influence  of  vapors, 
The  eye  sustained  his  aspect  for  long  while  ; 

Thus  in  the  bosom  of  a  cloud  of  flowers, 
Which  from  those  hands  angelic  were  thrown  up. 
And  down  descended  inside  and  without, 

With  crown  of  olive  o'er  a  snow-white  veil, 
Appeared  a  lady,  under  a  green  mantle, 
Vested  in  colors  of  the  living  flame. 


BEATRICE.  107 

Even  as  the  snow,  among  the  living  rafters 

Upon  the  back  of  Italy,  congeals, 

Blown  on  and  beaten  by  Sclavonian  winds, 

And  then,  dissolving,  filters  through  itself, 
Whene'er  the  land,  that  loses  shadow,  breathes, 
Like  as  a  taper  melts  before  a  fire, 

Even  such  I  was,  without  a  sigh  or  tear, 
Before  the  song  of  those  who  chime  for  ever 
After  the  chiming  of  the  eternal  spheres  ; 

But,  when  I  heard  in  those  sweet  melodies 
Compassion  for  me,  more  than  had  they  said, 
"  O  wherefore,  lady,  dost  thou  thus  consume  him? " 

The  ice,  that  was  about  my  heart  congealed, 
To  air  and  water  changed,  and,  in  my  anguish, 
Through  lips   and   eyes  came   gushing  from  my 
breast. 


108  TRANSLATIONS. 


Confusion  and  dismay,  together  mingled, 
Forced  such  a  feeble  "  Yes  ! "  out  of  my  mouth, 
To  understand  it  one  had  need  of  sight. 

Even  as  a  cross-bow  breaks,  when  't  is  discharged, 
Too  tensely  drawn  the  bow-string  and  the  bow, 
And  with  less  force  the  arrow  hits  the  mark  ; 

So  I  gave  way  under  this  heavy  burden, 
Gushing  forth  into  bitter  tears  and  sighs, 
And  the  voice,  fainting,  flagged  upon  its  passage. 


109 


SPRING. 

FROM    THE    FRENCH    OF    CHARLES    D'ORLEANS. 
XV.   CENTURY. 

Gentle   Spring  !  —  in  sunshine  clad, 
Well  dost  thou  thy  power  display  ! 

For  Winter  maketh  the  light  heart  sad, 

And  thou,  —  thou  makest  the  sad  heart  gay. 

He  sees  thee,  and  calls  to  his  gloomy  train, 

The  sleet,  and  the  snow,  and  the  wind,  and  the  rain ; 

And  they  shrink  away,  and  they  flee  in  fear, 
When  thy  merry  step  draws  near. 


110  TRANSLATIONS. 

Winter  giveth  the  fields  and  the  trees,  so  old, 
Their  beards  of  icicles  and  snow  ; 

And  the  rain,  it  raineth  so  fast  and  cold, 
We  must  cower  over  the  embers  low  ; 

And,  snugly  housed  from  the  wind  and  weather, 

Mope  like  birds  that  are  changing  feather. 

But  the  storm  retires,  and  the  sky  grows  clear, 
When  thy  merry  step  draws  near. 

Winter  maketh  the  sun  in  the  gloomy  sky 

Wrap  him  round  with  a  mantle  of  cloud ; 
But,  Heaven  be  praised,  thy  step  is  nigh  ; 
Thou  tearest  away  the  mournful  shroud, 
And  the  earth  looks  bright,  and  Winter  surly, 
Who  has  toiled  for  nought  both  late  and  early, 
Is  banished  afar  by  the  new-born  year, 
When  thy  merry  step  draws  near. 


Ill 


THE   CHILD   ASLEEP. 

FROM   THE   FRENCH. 

Sweet  babe  !  true  portrait  of  thy  father's  face, 
Sleep  on  the  bosom,  that  thy  lips  have  pressed ! 

Sleep,  little  one  ;  and  closely,  gently  place 
Thy  drowsy  eyelid  on  thy  mother's  breast. 

Upon  that  tender  eye,  my  little  friend, 

Soft  sleep  shall  come,  that  cometh  not  to  me  ! 

I  watch  to  see  thee,  nourish  thee,  defend  ;  — 
'T  is  sweet  to  watch  for  thee,  —  alone  for  thee! 


112  TRANSLATIONS. 

His  arms  fall  down  ;  sleep  sits  upon  his  brow  ; 

His  eye  is  closed ;  he  sleeps,  nor  dreams  of  harm. 
Wore  not  his  cheek  the  apple's  ruddy  glow, 

Would  you  not  say  he  slept  on  Death's  cold  arm? 

Awake,  my  boy  !  —  I  tremble  with  affright  ! 

Awake,  and  chase  this  fatal  thought !— Unclose 
Thine  eye  but  for  one  moment  on  the  light  ! 

Even  at  the  price  of  thine,  give  me  repose  ! 

Sweet  error!  —  he  but  slept, — I  breathe  again;  — 
Come,  gentle  dreams,  the  hour  of  sleep  beguile ! 

O  !  when  shall  he,  for  whom  I  sigh  in  vain, 
Beside  me  watch  to  see  thy  waking  smile  ? 


113 


THE  GRAVE. 

FROM    THE    ANGLO-SAXON. 

For  thee  was  a  house  built 
Ere  thou  wert  born, 
For  thee  was  a  mould  meant 
Ere  thou  of  mother  earnest. 
But  it  is  not  made  ready, 
Nor  its  depth  measured, 
Nor  is  it  seen 
How  long  it  shall  be. 
8  Q 


114  TRANSLATIONS. 

Now  I  bring  thee 
Where  thou  shalt  be  ; 
Now  I  shall  measure  thee, 
And  the  mould  afterwards. 

Thy  house  is  not 
Highly  timbered, 
It  is  unhigh  and  low  ; 
When  thou  art  therein, 
The  heel-ways  are  low, 
The  side-ways  unhigh. 
The  roof  is  built 
Thy  breast  full  nigh, 
So  thou  shalt  in  mould 
Dwell  full  cold, 
Dimly  and  dark. 

Doorless  is  that  house, 
And  dark  it  is  within  ; 


THE  GRAVE.  H5 

There  thou  art  fast  detained 
And  Death  hath  the  key. 
Loathsome  is  that  earth-house, 
And  grim  within  to  dwell. 
There  thou  shalt  dwell, 
x\nd  worms  shall  divide  thee. 

Thus  thou  art  laid, 
And  leavest  thy  friends  ; 
Thou  hast  no  friend, 
Who  will  come  to  thee, 
Who  will  ever  see 
How  that  house  pleaseth  thee  ; 
Who  will  ever  open 
The  door  for  thee 
And  descend  after  thee, 
For  soon  thou  art  loathsome 
And  hateful  to  see. 


116 


KING  CHRISTIAN. 
A    NATIONAL    SONG    OF    DENMARK. 

FROM   THE   DANISH   OF   JOHANNES   EVALD. 

King  Christian  stood  by  the  lofty  mast 

In  mist  and  smoke  ; 
His  sword  was  hammering  so  fast. 
Through  Gothic  helm  and  brain  it  passed  ; 
Then  sank  each  hostile  hulk  and  mast, 

In  mist  and  smoke. 
"  Fly  !  "  shouted  they,  "  fly,  he  who  can  ! 
Who  braves  of  Denmark's  Christian 

The  stroke  ? " 


KING  CHRISTIAN.  117 

Nils  Juel  gave  heed  to  the  tempest's  roar, 

Now  is  the  hour  ! 
He  hoisted  his  blood-red  flag  once  more, 
And  smote  upon  the  foe  full  sore, 
And  shouted  loud,  through  the  tempest's  roar, 

"  Now  is  the  hour  !  " 
;c  Fly  !  "  shouted  they,  "  for  shelter  fly  ! 
Of  Denmark's  Juel   who  can  defy 

The  power  ?  " 

North  Sea  !  a  glimpse  of  Wessel  rent 

Thy  murky  sky  ! 
Then  champions  to  thine  arms  were  sent  ; 
Terror  and  Death  glared  where  he  went ; 
From  the  waves  was  heard  a  wail,  that  rent 

Thy  murky  sky  ! 
From  Denmark,  thunders  Tordenskiol ', 
Let  each  to  Heaven  commend  his  soul, 

And  fly  ! 


118  TRANSLATIONS. 

Path  of  the  Dane  to  fame  and  might ! 

Dark-rolling  wave  ! 
Receive  thy  friend,  who,  scorning  flight, 
Goes  to  meet  danger  with  despite, 
Proudly  as  thou  the  tempest's  might, 

Dark-rolling  wave  ! 
And  amid  pleasures  and  alarms, 
And  war  and  victory,  be  thine  arms 

My  grave  !  * 


*  Nils  Juel  was  a  celebrated  Danish  Admiral,  and  Peder 
Wessel,  a  Vice- Admiral,  who  for  his  great  prowess  received 
the  popular  title  of  Tordenskiold,  or  Thunder -shield.  Jn 
childhood  he  was  a  tailor's  apprentice,  and  rose  to  his  high 
rank  before  the  age  of  twenty-eight,  when  he  was  killed  in 
a  duel. 


119 


THE  HAPPIEST  LAND. 

FRAGMENT  OF  A  MODERN  BALLAD. 


FROM    THE    GERMAN. 


There  sat  one  day  in  quiet, 
By  an  alehouse  on  the  Rhine, 

Four  hale  and  hearty  fellows, 
And  drank  the  precious  wine. 

The  landlord's  daughter  filled  their  cups, 

Around  the  rustic  board  ; 
Then  sat  they  all  so  calm  and  still, 

And  spake  not  one  rude  word. 


120  TRANSLATIONS. 

But,when  the  maid  departed, 
A  Swabian  raised  his  hand, 

And  cried,  all  hot  and  flushed  with  wine, 
"  Long  live  the  Swabian  land  ! 

"  The  greatest  kingdom  upon  earth 
Cannot  with  that  compare  ; 

With  all  the  stout  and  hardy  men 
And  the  nut-brown  maidens  there." 

u  Ha  !  "  cried  a  Saxon,  laughing,  — 
And  dashed  his  beard  with  wine ; 

"  I  had  rather  live  in  Lapland, 
Than  that  Swabian  land  of  thine  ! 

"  The  goodliest  land  on  all  this  earth, 

It  is  the  Saxon  land  ! 
There  have  I  as  many  maidens 

As  fingers  on  this  hand  !  " 


THE  HAPPIEST  LAND.  121 

"  Hold  your  tongues !  both  Swabian  and  Saxon ! " 

A  bold  Bohemian  cries  ; 
"  If  there  's  a  heaven  upon  this  earth, 

In  Bohemia  it  lies. 

"  There  the  tailor  blows  the  flute, 

And  the  cobler  blows  the  horn, 
And  the  miner  blows  the  bugle, 

Over  mountain  gorge  and  bourn." 


And  then  the  landlord's  daughter 
Up  to  heaven  raised  her  hand, 

And  said,  "  Ye  may  no  more  contend, 
There  lies  the  happiest  land  !  " 


122 


THE   WAVE. 

FROM    THE    GERMAN    OF   TIEDGE. 

"  Whither,  thou  turbid  wave  ? 
Whither,  with  so  much  haste, 
As  if  a  thief  wert  thou  ? " 

"  I  am  the  Wave  of  Life, 
Stained  with  my  margin's  dust  ; 
From  the  struggle  and  the  strife 
Of  the  narrow  stream  I  fly 
To  the  Sea's  immensity, 
To  wash  from  me  the  slime 
Of  the  muddy  banks  of  Time." 


123 


THE  DEAD. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  KLOPSTOCR. 

How  they  so  softly  rest, 
All,  all  the  holy  dead, 
Unto  whose  dwelling-place 
Now  doth  my  soul  draw  near ! 
How  they  so  softly  rest, 
All  in  their  silent  graves, 
Deep  to  corruption 
Slowly  down-sinking  ! 


124  TRANSLATIONS. 

And  they  no  longer  weep, 
Here,  where  complaint  is  still ! 
And  they  no  longer  feel, 
Here,  where  all  gladness  flies  ! 
And,  by  the  cypresses 
Softly  o'ershadowed, 
Until  the  Angel 
Calls  them,  they  slumber ! 


125 


THE   BIRD  AND  THE   SHIP. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  MULLER. 

"The  rivers  rush  into  the  sea, 
By  castle  and  town  they  go  ; 

The  winds  behind  them  merrily 
Their  noisy  trumpets  blow. 

"  The  clouds  are  passing  far  and  high, 
We  little  birds  in  them  play  ; 

And  every  thing,  that  can  sing  and  fly, 
Goes  with  us,  and  far  away. 


126  TRANSLATIONS. 

"  I  greet  thee,  bonny  boat !  Whither,  or  whence, 
With  thy  fluttering  golden  band  ?"  — 

"  I  greet  thee,  little  bird  !    To  the  wide  sea 
I  haste  from  the  narrow  land. 

"  Full  and  swollen  is  every  sail ; 

I  see  no  longer  a  hill, 
I  have  trusted  all  to  the  sounding  gale, 

And  it  will  not  let  me  stand  still. 

"  And  wilt  thou,  little  bird,  go  with  us  ? 

Thou  mayest  stand  on  the  mainmast  tall, 
For  full  to  sinking  is  my  house 

With  merry  companions  all."  — 

"  I  need  not  and  seek  not  company, 

Bonny  boat,  I  can  sing  all  alone  ; 
For  the  mainmast  tall  too  heavy  am  I, 

Bonny  boat,  I  have  wings  of  my  own. 


THE  BIRD  AND  THE  SHIP.  127 

"  High  over  the  sails,  high  over  the  mast. 

Who  shall  gainsay  these  joys  ? 
When  thy  merry  companions  are  still,  at  last, 

Thou  shalt  hear  the  sound  of  my  voice. 

"  Who  neither  may  rest,  nor  listen  may, 

God  bless  them  every  one  ! 
I  dart  away,  in  the  bright  blue  day, 

And  the  golden  fields  of  the  sun. 

"  Thus  do  I  sing  my  weary  song, 

Wherever  the  four  winds  blow  ; 
And  this  same  song,  my  whole  life  long, 

Neither  Poet  nor  Printer  may  know." 


128 


WHITHER  ? 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  MULLER. 

I  heard  a  brooklet  gushing 
From  its  rocky  fountain  near, 

Down  into  the  valley  rushing, 
So  fresh  and  wondrous  clear. 

I  know  not  what  came  o'er  me, 
Nor  who  the  counsel  gave  ; 

But  I  must  hasten  downward. 
All  with  my  pilgrim-stave  ; 


WHITHER?  129 

Downward,  and  ever  farther, 

And  ever  the  brook  beside  ; 
And  ever  fresher  murmured, 

And  ever  clearer,  the  tide. 

Is  this  the  way  I  was  going  ? 

Whither,  O  brooklet,  say  ! 
Thou  hast,  with  thy  soft  murmur, 

Murmured  my  senses  away. 

What  do  I  say  of  a  murmur  ? 

That  can  no  murmur  be  ; 
'T  is  the  water-nymphs,  that  are  singing 

Their  roundelays  under  me. 

Let  them  sing,  my  friend,  let  them  murmur, 

And  wander  merrily  near  ; 
The  wheels  of  a  mill  are  going 

In  every  brooklet  clear. 


130 


BEWARE  ! 


FROM    THE    GERMAN. 


I  know  a  maiden  fair  to  see, 

Take  care  ! 
She  can  both  false  and  friendly  be, 

Beware  !     Beware  ! 

Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee  ! 

She  has  two  eyes,  so  soft,  and  brown, 

Take  care  ! 
She  gives  a  side-glance  and  looks  down. 

Beware  !     Beware  ! 

Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee  ! 


BEWARE!  131 

And  she  has  hair  of  a  golden  hue, 

Take  care  ! 
And  what  she  says,  it  is  not  true, 

Beware  !     Beware  ! 

Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee  ! 

She  has  a  bosom  as  white  as  snow, 

Take  care  ! 
She  knows  how  much  it  is  best  to  show, 

Beware  !     Beware  ! 

Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee  ! 

She  gives  thee  a  garland  woven  fair, 

Take  care  ! 
It  is  a  fool's-cap  for  thee  to  wear, 

Beware  !     Beware  ! 

Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee  ! 


132 


SONG  OF   THE   BELL. 

FROM   THE    GERMAN. 

Bell  !  thou  soundest  merrily, 
When  the  bridal  party 

To  the  church  doth  hie  ! 
Bell !  thou  soundest  solemnly, 
When,  on  Sabbath  morning, 

Fields  deserted  lie  ! 

Bell !  thou  soundest  merrily  ; 
Tellest  thou  at  evening, 

Bed-time  draweth  nigh  ! 
Bell !  thou  soundest  mournfully  ; 
Tellest  thou  the  bitter 

Parting  hath  gone  by ! 


SONG  OF  THE  BELL.  133 

Say  !  how  canst  thou  mourn  ? 
How  canst  thou  rejoice  ? 

Thou  art  but  metal  dull  ! 
And  yet  all  our  sorrowings, 
And  all  our  rejoicings, 

Thou  dost  feel  them  all ! 

God  hath  wonders  many, 
Which  we  cannot  fathom, 

Placed  within  thy  form  ! 
When  the  heart  is  sinking, 
Thou  alone  canst  raise  it, 

Trembling  in  the  storm  ! 


134 


THE   CASTLE   BY  THE   SEA. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  UKLAND. 

"  Hast  thou  seen  that  lordly  castle, 
That  Castle  by  the  Sea  ? 

Golden  and  red  above  it 
The  clouds  float  gorgeously. 

"  And  fain  it  would  stoop  downward 
To  the  mirrored  wave  below  ; 

And  fain  it  would  soar  upward 
In  the  evening's  crimson  glow." 


THE  CASTLE  BY  THE  SEA.  135 

"Well  have  I  seen  that  castle. 

That  Castle  by  the  Sea, 
And  the  moon  above  it  standing, 

And  the  mist  rise  solemnly." 

cc  The  winds  and  the  waves  of  ocean, 

Had  they  a  merry  chime  ? 
Didst  thou  hear,  from  those  lofty  chambers, 

The  harp  and  the  minstrel's  rhyme  ? " 

"  The  winds  and  the  waves  of  ocean, 

They  rested  quietly, 
But  I  heard  on  the  gale  a  sound  of  wail, 

And  tears  came  to  mine  eye." 

1  'And  sawest  thou  on  the  turrets 
The  King  and  his  royal  bride  ? 

And  the  wave  of  their  crimson  mantles  ? 
And  the  golden  crown  of  pride  ? 


136  TRANSLATIONS. 

"Led  they  not  forth,  in  rapture, 
A  beauteous  maiden  there  ? 

Resplendent  as  the  morning  sun, 
Beaming  with  golden  hair  ?  " 

"Well  saw  I  the  ancient  parents, 
Without  the  crown  of  pride  ; 

They  were  moving  slow,  in  weeds  of  woe 
No  maiden  was  by  their  side  ! " 


137 


THE  BLACK  KNIGHT. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  UHLAND. 

'T  was  Pentecost,  the  Feast  of  Gladness, 
When  woods  and  fields  put  off  all  sadness. 

Thus  began  the  King  and  spake  ; 
"  So  from  the  halls 
Of  ancient  Hof burg's  walls, 

A  luxuriant  Spring  shall  break." 

Drums  and  trumpets  echo  loudly, 
Wave  the  crimson  banners  proudly. 

From  balcony  the  King  looked  on ; 
In  the  play  of  spears, 
Fell  all  the  cavaliers, 

Before  the  monarch's  stalwart  son. 


138  TRANSLATIONS. 

To  the  barrier  of  the  fight 
Rode  at  last  a  sable  Knight. 

"  Sir  Knight !  your  name  and  scutcheon,  say ! " 
"  Should  I  speak  it  here, 
Ye  would  stand  aghast  with  fear  ; 

I'ma  Prince  of  mighty  sway  !  " 

When  he  rode  into  the  lists, 

The  arch  of  heaven  grew  black  with  mists, 

And  the  castle  'gan  to  rock. 
At  the  first  blow, 
Fell  the  youth  from  saddle-bow, 

Hardly  rises  from  the  shock. 

Pipe  and  viol  call  the  dances, 
Torch-light  through  the  high  halls  glances  ; 

Waves  a  mighty  shadow  in  ; 
With  manner  bland 
Doth  ask  the  maiden's  hand, 

Doth  with  her  the  dance  begin  ; 


THE  BLACK  KNIGHT.  139 

Danced  in  sable  iron  sark, 
Danced  a  measure  weird  and  dark, 

Coldly  clasped  her  limbs  around. 
From  breast  and  hair 
Down  fall  from  her  the  fair 

Flowerets,  faded,  to  the  ground. 

To  the  sumptuous  banquet  came 
Every  Knight  and  every  Dame. 

'Twixt  son  and  daughter  all  distraught, 
With  mournful  mind 
The  ancient  King  reclined, 

Gazed  at  them  in  silent  thought. 

Pale  the  children  both  did  look, 
But  the  guest  a  beaker  took  ; 

"  Golden  wine  will  make  you  whole !  " 
The  children  drank, 
Gave  many  a  courteous  thank  ; 

"  O  that  draught  was  very  cool !  " 


140  TRANSLATIONS. 

Each  the  father's  breast  embraces, 
Son  and  daughter ;  and  their  faces 

Colorless  grow  utterly. 
Whichever  way 
Looks  the  fear-struck  father  gray, 

He  beholds  his  children  die. 

"  Woe  !  the  blessed  children  both 
Takest  thou  in  the  joy  of  youth  ; 

Take  me,  too,  the  joyless  father  !  " 
Spake  the  grim  Guest, 
From  his  hollow,  cavernous  breast ; 

"  Roses  in  the  spring  I  gather  !  " 


141 


SONG  OF  THE   SILENT  LAND. 

FROM    THE   GERMAN    OF    SALIS. 

Into  the  Silent  Land  ! 

Ah  !  who  shall  lead  us  thither  ? 

Clouds  in  the  evening  sky  more  darkly  gather, 

And  shattered  wrecks  lie  thicker  on  the  strand. 

Who  leads  us  with  a  gentle  hand 

Thither,  O  thither, 

Into  the  Silent  Land  ? 

Into  the  Silent  Land  ! 

To  you,  ye  boundless  regions 

Of  all  perfection  !    Tender  morning-visions 


142  TRANSLATIONS. 

Of  beauteous  souls !  The  Future's  pledge  and  band ! 
Who  in  Life's  battle  firm  doth  stand, 
Shall  bear  Hope's  tender  blossoms 
Into  the  Silent  Land  ! 

O  Land  !     O  Land  ! 

For  all  the  broken-hearted 

The  mildest  herald  by  our  fate  allotted, 

Beckons,  and  with  inverted  torch  doth  stand 

To  lead  us  with  a  gentle  hand 

Into  the  land  of  the  great  Departed, 

Into  the  Silent  Land  ! 


14* 


L'ENVOI. 


Ye  voices,  that  arose 

After  the  Evening's  close, 

And  whispered  to  my  restless  heart  repose ! 

Go,  breathe  it  in  the  ear 

Of  all  who  doubt  and  fear, 

And  say  to  them,  "  Be  of  good  cheer  !  " 


Ye  sounds,  so  low  and  calm, 
That  in  the  groves  of  balm 
Seemed  to  me  like  an  angel's  psalm  ! 


144  L'ENVOI. 

Go,  mingle  yet  once  more 

With  the  perpetual  roar 

Of  the  pine  forest,  dark  and  hoar  ! 


Tongues  of  the  dead,  not  lost, 
But  speaking  from  death's  frost, 
Like  fiery  tongues  at  Pentecost ! 

Glimmer,  as  funeral  lamps, 

Amid  the  chills  and  damps 

Of  the  vast  plain  where  Death  encamps  ! 


END. 


